The Toy Taker

The Toy Taker
Luke Delaney

The third novel in the DI Sean Corrigan series – authentic and terrifying crime fiction with a psychological edge, by an ex-Met detective. Perfect for fans of Mark Billingham, Peter James and Stuart MacBride.Your child has been taken…Snatched in the dead of night from the safety of the family home. There’s no sign of forced entry, no one heard or saw a thing.DI Sean Corrigan investigates.He needs to find four-year-old George Bridgeman before abduction becomes murder. But his ability to see into dark minds, to think like those he hunts, has deserted him – just when he needs it most.Another child vanishes.What kind of monster is Corrigan hunting? And will he work it out in time to save the children?

Copyright (#ulink_5226802c-1112-57c4-9169-c7020824b9a2)

Harper

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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Luke Delaney 2014

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014 Cover photographs © Henry Steadman

Luke Delaney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780007486144

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2014 ISBN: 9780007486137

Version 2016-10-31

DEDICATION (#ulink_6f87fb29-d0d3-5823-8a71-818376bcb046)

To my Mum – Mary.

I grew up in quite a large family, my siblings and I being close in age and none of us angels. We were a nightmare at times and just feeding, clothing and keeping us clean must have been exhausting and stressful, enough to push a mere mortal over the edge. But to this day I can’t remember Mum ever being angry with me or even telling me off much. All I remember is feeling safe and loved when she was there. I could have done with a kick up the backside from time to time, but I think Mum felt we’d take enough hits and knocks as we grew older, and saw her role as being the one to give us sanctuary when we needed it – and we did.

It would be wrong of me to give the impression she was soft though. She’s intelligent and tough, and razor sharp – a legacy of being the only sister with three older brothers growing up in the industrial northeast. She used her toughness to protect us when we were younger: she was the buffer between us and the big bad world – mine in particular, I think. She’d occasionally bunk me off school on a Friday, and we’d head into the city centre where I’d watch patiently while she bought yet more cushions, my reward being a slap-up lunch in a café. They were the best Fridays ever!

As my childhood gave way to the teenage years she remained the brick I anchored myself to, dispensing words of wisdom in a never-ending supply, picking me up when I was down, encouraging me when I was ready to quit, slipping me (and my pals) a few quid when she could so we could buy some smokes and the occasional pint, feeding me (and my pals) at the drop of a hat, advising me (and my pals) of how to fix our broken hearts when girlfriends left us for boys with cars.

One day, as I was miserably nursing an aforementioned broken heart, she said something that has stuck with me ever since: Being miserable is a conscious decision and a waste of life. Every minute you sit there being miserable is a minute of your life you’ll never get back. In a blink of an eye you’ll be as old as I am now and you’ll regret wasting these minutes like you won’t believe. Wise words indeed.

Sadly Mary lost the one and only love of her life a few years ago – my dad, Mike. She’s struggled since then, understandably. They were together for nearly fifty years – loyal and loving to the last. Not easy losing the love of your life, but she remains a beautiful and formidable lady.

For everything she’s done for me, my siblings and my dad, Mike, I’d like to dedicate this book to her.

For Mum. For Mary.

God bless.

Table of Contents

Cover (#ub2456905-8ab4-57bc-8015-fb3d01b5dae7)

Title Page (#ua5e14911-0137-509d-af28-4f2125b73c52)

Copyright (#u60e10fd5-ebda-5e38-9d2b-3d0a02ec0f56)

Dedication (#ue94685c8-c8ec-5f85-a49a-72acda4d9f7c)

Chapter 1 (#ue202ee87-f34d-5c52-9c67-d40efa27c1c4)

Chapter 2 (#u569bc569-ec7a-5b3d-a45f-a31b16991584)

Chapter 3 (#uf211fb9f-f7bf-582c-96c5-8278ec6c931f)

Chapter 4 (#ue8f162a5-c432-5e61-b61f-2f06b1583b88)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)